User blog:SkyrimsShillelagh/Twelve Stars of Taneth: Chapter 12
Chapter 11 Chapter 12: The Death of the Crimson Archer Crimson wearily lifted his head. He was in a cell. Three of the walls were stone, so was the ceiling and floor. The fourth wall, across from his, was composed of an iron-barred doors and steel bars that went from floor to ceiling. He tried to stand up, and almost immediately fell over, as the chains that attached his wrists to the back corners of the cell suddenly went taunt, forcing him into back into an uncomfortable kneeling position. Something moved in the cell, drawing Crimson’s eye. It was Shayera. She’d been unceremoniously dumped againt the right wall, and lay there on her side, unmoving. “Shayera!” Crimson hissed to her. “Shayera!” “Don’t bother.” Jasmin stood outside the cell bars. Crimson tried to stand, and only made it halfway to his feet before the chains tightened. “Is she…” “She’s alive.” Jasmin nodded. “For now. I healed her wounds, but toll they took on her body, and the stress from healing so fast, has put in her in a critical condition.” “Then why aren’t you helping her?” Crimson demanded. “You said it yourself, it’s me you want, not her.” “I want to watch you suffer. And I figured the best to do that was to put someone dying right in front of you, and make you understand there was nothing in the world you could do to stop it. I don’t want Shayera dead, and it pains me this is what it has come to. But I believe it’ll be worth it in the end.” “Why are you doing this?” Crimson asked. “What did I do that made you hate me so much?” “You really don’t know? You truly have no idea?” Crimson shook his head back and forth. “No! But even then, I’m sorry, Jasmin. I’m sorry I drove you to this.” “No you’re not.” Jasmin told him. “Not yet.” And then she was gone, slipping out of sight. Crimson dropped his knees, chains clinking. Water dripped somewhere. Was he underground? That would explain the lack of light, the damp air, and no windows. There was still a way he could get out of this. Perhaps he could dislodge one of the chains from the wall? Maybe convince Jasmin there was no reason for her enmity towards him? Crimson’s eyes darted again to the prone form occupying a portion of his cell. He needed to save Shayera. Nothing else mattered now. Even if he had to chew off his own hand to break free of this cell, although that’d likely be overkill. Or perhaps now would be a better time for reflection on what could have made Jasmin hate him so. He and Juliette had no permitted her to go the University, true, but that was merely because they preferred her at home. Jasmin had always been difficult child and they didn’t think that it would be the place for her. Shayera claimed it was Jasmin’s strong magical talent that had corrupted her, made her power mad. Crimson didn’t think it was either of them. There was a different, more personal reason. He looked back over to Shayera, and saw the girl was suddenly gone. He was alone in the cell. Had Jasmin taken her? Had she somehow left without Crimson’s notice? “Shayera?” Crimson shouted. “''Shayera''?! What did you do with my daughter!?” His cries went answered. They didn’t even echo. There was an inhale of breath. Another person was sharing Crimson’s cell with him. The person gave a raspy chuckle, and Crimson glanced to the side, where he saw a vague outline of a man, hidden in the darkness of the cell. “You’ve made quite the mess, princeling.” The man snickered as he stepped from the shadows, and Crimson’s blood ran cold. The man was Redguard in his early thirties, with dark features, and a bald head. His eyes were a cold blue color, the skin especially dark around them, giving them an icy appearance. His face was affixed in an expression of permanent callousness. “But I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” Crimson stared blankly ahead, so astounded that it took him a moment to speak, and when he did, it was a whispery murmur. “You’re dead.” Daireg’s smile didn’t reach his eyes as he approached Crimson. His maroon uniform meshed with the darkness of the cell, making it seem like he was emerging from the shadows. “Did you think some elven puppet of yours would be enough to end me? Do you even think death would be any barrier for me?” “This isn’t real.” Crimson decided, looking around the cell, avoiding Daireg. “I’m dreaming. Or I’ve gone mad. Insanity’s be nice around now.” “This is no dream, Archer.” Daireg informed him, reaching forward, and seizing Crimson by the chin, and lowered his face to his, forcing Crimson to meet his eyes. “And I’m very much alive.” “The Adversary. It’s impersonating Daireg.” “No. No it’s not. Forget the Adversary, princeling, and understand this: it’s always been me. Forget your misguided son or your mad daughter. I’ve always been your true adversary. And always your superior. The arrogance on your part to assume I could be killed is outstanding.” “How?” Crimson’s voice was small. “How are you still alive?” “Because I prepared.” Daireg said, pressing his thumb into Crimson’s jaw and shoving the Archer’s face away. “First I was outplayed, by a relic and a coward, no less. It’s insulting. But the Shehai preserved me. At the moment of my death it’s power thrilled through me, and I embraced it. Diagna cannot control the Spirit-Sword, no matter how much he wishes. It chose me, princeling.” Diagna smiled, looking down at him. “The world’s ultimate power selected me as it’s agent. And here you are, a withered husk, keeping up a pointless fight. There is no end to my satisfaction at so absolute a victory.” Crimson was quiet, staring down at the cell’s floor. “What do you want?” “No grandiose claims? No informing me of my inevitable defeat? Not even a quip?” Daireg didn’t receive a reply. “I’ll tell you what I want.” Daireg relented, crouching down beside Crimson. The Archer turned his head away, and Daireg leaned forwards, to speak directly into Crimson’s ear. “But first, I’m going to show you why you always knew it would end this way. Why you knew it couldn’t end any other way. That deep down inside, some part of you understood you didn’t have what it took to defeat me, and you never did. Because there’s always someone better, Sahir, and it’s always been me.” Crimson listened to Daireg’s monologue passively, not reacting. “We’ll begin some three decades ago.” Daireg said, standing. “The night the Hall of Virtues burned. You remember it. You know it better than the faces of your own children.” ---- Crimson slammed the Adversary into the wall, and pinned it there, pressing his forearm into it’s throat. “Getting’ real sick of this game, pal.” He grumbled. “You ain’t even trying anymore.” The Adversary wore the face of Conner, “the Black Adder,” the man who’s Crimson’s son had been named after—which was because Crimson had watched Conner die. It had been a dead giveaway, in two meanings of the word, when the Adversary had popped up wearing this face. Which is what had tipped Crimson off right away that this time would be different. “You are wrong, Archer.” The Adversary said, using Adder’s voice. “This will be my most elaborate attempt yet.” “The hell’s that mean?” “I have been unable to conventionally defeat you in any medium. I must now force your hand so we meet on even ground.” “Man, make sense or I’mma cut a piece out ov’ you and feed it to my horse.” “The Hall of Virtues will explode in fifteen minutes, if you do not intervene in time.” It said. “Intervene?” Crimson pulled back, confused. “How’s it gonna explode?” “It will happen. You are running out of time.” Crimson hesitated, wondering if he should pull his sword and stab the Adversary, wondering if it was telling the truth. “You are considering eliminating me. Don’t.” Crimson felt he was at a the crossroads of something, something important, but he wasn’t certain what. But if there was a possibility the Hall of Virtues was in danger, he had to do something about it. Sticking his tongue out at the Adversary, and driving a knee into its balls just to be safe, he turned around and dashed out into the darkened city. Boots slapping the pavement, he hurried down empty streets, running beneath the tightly packed sandstone buildings and Nirn’s twin moons. His breath came quick as he booked it around corners, not daring to end his sprint. Some part of Crimson told him that if he ran fast enough, he’d prevent something bad from happening. He had that heavy feeling you get in your stomach when you realize something you did or something you’d done was about to come back real quick to haunt you, and there was very little you could do to avoid it. That’s how Crimson felt. So he ran. The Hall of Virtues appeared before him, the tallest building in Taneth, that landmark tower of unique design that rose high above the city. Crimson held his scabbard to his side, his sword swinging about wildly on his hip, as he crossed the square of empty paving stones that led up to the Hall of the Virtues of War. Its double doors sliding doors were slid open as always, welcoming. Warm candlelight lit the doorway, a beacon in the dark Hammerfell night. The foyer of the building served as a practice room, so citizens could come and watch the students practice their sword techniques. It was empty now, save for one man. Crimson could see Ishien through the doors, to his relief. The old man, more than ninety years old now, was sweeping the practice mats himself. The Hall was his, and he made it his duty to take care of it. “Ishien!” Crimson called, skidding to a stop outside the Hall. The old Master looked up from his sweeping, saw Crimson, and smiled. The Hall of Virtues exploded. A silent inferno rushed out of the doors, and then up, enveloping the building in a sudden blaze. The boom of the explosion came next, an invisible shockwave expanding outwards, shattering windows and wall arounds the building. It caught Crimson in the chest, sending him flying backwards. The tower groaned as the fire consumed it, teetered on its remaining supports, and then crumpled downwards, collapsing on itself. The noise was cacophonous and immense, deafening all around to anything else as Taneth’s pride collapsed to the ground in a mushroom cloud of dust, smoke, and fire. Crimson lay on the pavement, unmoving, coughing from the force of the explosion and resulting smoke and debris. His entire body ached. The shockwave had probably ruptured a few somethings as it passed through him. It was a display of immense effort to lift his head, and take in what had happened, the devastion that had occurred. The Hall of Virtues was gone, little more than ash drifting in the midnight breeze. “No.” Crimson whispered, the word escaping from parted lips. He shoved himself upright, groaning and grunting audibly as every movement racked him with pain. He stumbled towards the ruins, gripping his side. The smoke was dropping, clearing, revealing more and more of the ruined tower, and how little of it remained. Crimson stared, no words able to encapsulate what he felt. Grief? Horror? Fury? There were no words because Crimson felt nothing. He was empty. Watching his entire childhood die in one fiery blaze had reached inside of him and snuffed something out. How much could a man, no matter how durable take before he was truly broken? “I promised I would destroy you.” The voice of the Adversary came from behind him. Crimson turned slowly, to look at the creature wearing the face of his friend, Conner’s features locked in a smug smile. “What kind of monster are you?” Crimson asked quietly, unable to channel his disgust and hatred for this thing into anything productive. “I am what defines a monster.” The Adversary said, striding forwards. “I am death, and everything before and beyond it. I am destruction and chaos. I am change. I am the frailty of a strong man made old, the illness that cripples a newborn, the blood that pumps from an open wound.” Its features began to melt, like the wax of a candle that’s held a flame too long, becoming someone else. The Adversary’s face coalesced into that of Talin, Crimson’s on time leader. Then it morphed again to that of Juliette, his wife. Then his father’s face, his mother’s. “I am everything you love.” The Adversary said, appearances flickering. The person it took the shape of would melt away immediately to become that of someone else. Ishien, Diagna, Aleera, Tidon, Hakeen. Faces of his old companions and then of the Keshik flickered by. “And everything you hate.” Daireg, Heartbender, Jagar Tharn, the Altmer Hunter, all of Crimson’s foes over the years, his adversaries. “I am what you fear, and what you cherish.” The features grew indistinct again, but remained muddled, taking no true shape. “I am what you were and what you will become.” The Adversary’s face changed once last time, to the one most familiar to Crimson. “But most importantly, I am you.” Crimson’s own voice said to him. “You created Daireg and Heartbender. You allowed Conner to die. Even my presence here is a consequence of your weakness. It was your inability to form the Shehai that drew me to you. The greatest enemy to you, Archer, has always been yourself.” Crimson watched the Adversary wordlessly, wearing an emotionless mask. There wasn’t a witty comeback or something silly to say to this. Crimson didn’t feel that was appropriate. Because the Shehai was there. It thrilled through him. Deadened inside as he was, never had he before in his life felt this close to the power the Spirit Sword brought. “Sounds like then,” Crimson decided, drawing his sword, undoing his sword belt and tossing it aside, “that I’ve got ta kill myself.” The Adversary inhaled deeply through its nostrils. It was dressed like him now, and mirrored what he’d just done to perfection, an ebony scimitar of its own extended out at its side. “I can sense it with you: the Shehai. This will be it. You are here in your full power, and thus subject to my full power.” Crimson watched his own features dissolve as the Adversary lost color, as if all light was leaking out of it. It grew in size, widening and gaining height, becoming a vague silhouette of shadow. It’s scimitar had grown into a greatsword nearly six feet long, which the Adversary casually held in one hand. Crimson realized he was playing into the Adversary’s hands just now. It had wanted this outcome, planning for it. Crimson was wounded, weakened from the blast. And he still couldn’t command the Shehai to the fullest. It was there, giving him strength, but still just beyond his reach. It was like there was a fine glass barrier between him and it—he could see it, feel it’s warmth, understand the greatness of the Shehai in all its capacity, but was unable to touch it. The Adversary came at him, slamming the greatsword down towards Crimson, the massive blade falling like a guillotine. The Archer side-stepped out of the way, nearly collapsing as he felt his broken insides twist. He was inside the Adversary’s reach and drove his scimitar through its side. There was some resistence, but the blade broke through. Crimson stepped back out of range as the Adversary swung a fist at him. Black fog billowed out from the hole in its side, tendrils of it collecting on the ground. Crimson looked from the puncture to the creature’s faceless… face. It showed little reaction to having been stabbed. “I will not go so easily. I have taken precautions.” It lunged at him, blade sweeping towards his head, and Crimson barely ducked underneath it. He stabbed outwards, sword flashing for the Adversary’s sword, but it had brought it’s arm around and slammed it’s free palm into the back of his hand. His sword flew from his grip, clattering to the ground. Crimson threw himself after it, hitting the cold pavement which had been recently covered in ash. He’d dove at the correct time, as he heard a whoosh of air and felt a breeze as the Adversary’s blade passed overhead. He scrambled to his feet, wrapping a hand around the scimitar, and then threw himself forwards again. His boots slipped, but he managed to find purchase. The greatsword’s point was driven into the ground behind him, momentarily trapped. Crimson began to dodge to the side, and was nearly tugged off his feet by his own cloak—the shadowy blade had pinned it to the pavement. The Adversary turned to look at him, seeming almost triumphant in its movement. Crimson spun, scimitar’s flashing, and cleaved through his own cloak. Then, leaping forwards, drove his sword directly into the Adversary’s face. The sword passed clean through to the other side, half the blade stuck out of the back of its head. Crimson moved to pull his weapon free, but the Adversary’s free hand flashed up and caught him at the wrist. It was easily strong than he was and tore the sword from Crimson’s grasp by pulling Crimson’s hand from the sword’s grip, lifting him from the ground like he was a doll, and then tossing him aside. The hard impact against the paving stones made it feel like his guts tearing themselves to pieces. As if to prove a point, a cough welled up in his chest. Crimson had been pushing himself up, but he suddenly heaved, and spat blood onto the ground. A lot of it. Yeah, he was fucked. The Adversary pulled his sword out of its face as easily as if it was picking an eyelash, and tossed the blade aside. It freed it’s greastsword from the earth, and was about to get down to its business for the evening. When both of them caught motion from one of the rooftops. The Adversary’s looked skyward as a Khajiit, dressed in the loose by well-tailored outfit of a practicing martial artist, slammed a flying kick with all his weight behind it into the Adversary’s face. The incarnation of chaos was knocked flat by the force of the blow, and the Khajiit landed lithely in a crotch. He rose slowly rose to his full height, unfolded a large body of hard muscle that stretched against the fabric of his clothing. Be’kow, the silent defender of what was formerly the Hall of the Virtues of War. The Khajiit reached out with his foot, toe catching Crimson’s sword, and kicked it up into his hand. He tossed to the ground in front of Crimson, and the Archer slapped a palm on it, slowly returning to his feet. The Adversary cocked its head at this new development. Then, it sped forwards, blade flashing for the pair of them. Be’kow went one way, Crimson the other, each picking a side of the Adversary. It turned towards Be’kow judging him the more eminent threat. Its sword traveled from the previous swing to a chop in an arc, the blade raining down on Be’kow. Crimson interrupted the Adversary, stepping in and slicing along the back of its shadowy thigh. The Adversary’s response was fluid, making a one hundred eighty degree turn to redirect the strike to Tanner but Be’kow slammed a palm strike into the base of where the Adversary’s spine would be. It stumbled forwards, into Crimson, who rammed his sword right through its stomach. Getting an idea, he didn’t stop, shoving all his weight against the blade, so that it traveled through the Adversary’s foggy innards, and fell out on the other side. The creature ignored the smoke billowing out of its stomach at a rapid rate, almost like it was deflating, and raised its greastsword over the now defenseless Archer, it’s mission in sight despite some hiccips. Be’kow, Crimson’s scimitar in hand, drove the sword into its back, where the neck met the shoulders. The Adversary crumpled to its knees. The greatsword rose again defiantly to impale Crimson through the midsection, but Be’kow stepped up and brought one foot down, planting it on the greatsword, and pinning the weapon to the ground. The Khajiit yanked the scimitar out the Adversary’s neck and tossed it to Crimson underhand, who caught the scimitar in both hands, then brought the weapon back. “I did not foresee this outcome.” The Adversary noted. “Just shut the fuck up, mate.” The scimitar came down, cleaving through the Adversary’s neck, then out the other side. It dissolved into mist, dissipating, until Be’kow and Crimson were standing over nothing, staring at each other. Crimson turned from the Khajiit, to look at the ruin. “What have I done, Be’kow?” Crimson asked. The Khajiit said nothing, merely watching Crimson. “Right.” Crimson muttered. “I forgot, you don’t talk.” He undid his cloak, letting it drop to the ground in a thoughtless pile. The laces of his jerkin came next, and he let it drop to the ground, followed his red shirt that was composed of thickened cloth. He pulled his mask, hanging around his neck on a leather string, over his head and tossed it onto the ground with the rest of the stuff. Sahir stood there, wearing only his linen short-sleeved undershirt, a pair of maroon riding-pants, and leather boots. “Guess you can’t tell anyone about this then, can you?” Sahir said with a nod, fetching his sword belt and fastening it on, followed by sheathing his sword. “The Crimson Archer’s dead.” He decided, turning to face the ruined Hall. He considered the ruins for a moment with pursed lips. “Let’s hope no one ever finds out he was me.” Sahir muttered to himself. With that, he departed, leaving behind his uniform, Be’kow, the Hall of Virtues, and disappearing into the night. ---- “I remember.” Crimson murmured, dropping his chin to his chest. “Of course you do. And do you admit it was your fault?” Crimson nodded. “Look at me.” Daireg growled. He gripped the top of Crimson's head, and forced Crimson to meet his eyes. “Look at me and say it.” “I do.” “Admit it’s your fault.” “It’s my fault.” The weakness in Crimson’s voice made him pity himself. Daireg shoved Crimson’s head away in disgust. “You always thought you were better than me.” Daireg said, standing so he could pace the cell. “Laughing at me behind your back. You see the joke’s on you now though, don’t you, princeling? Everything you scorned me for lacking, you threw away. You made me the villain of your own personal story.” Daireg shook his head. “And now you’re suffering because of that oversized ego and personal vanity.” “Damnit, Daireg, what do you want?!” Crimson raised his head and voice enough to shout at the Redguard, his anger rising at being so carelessly insulted. “There it is!” Daireg snickered. “There’s your spine. I was wondering if it’d been snapped yet, or beaten out of you. I want what I’ve always wanted, princeling. I want you to die.” Daireg was standing over Crimson again in an instant. He drove a knee into Crimson’s throat, eliciting a violent, hacking cough from the Archer, and then force Crimson’s face upward by driving the knee into Crimson’s jaw. “But you won’t. You just… cling on, like a flea or any other parasite. You dig your nails in and burrow your teeth and hold onto life.” Daireg stooped seizing the side of Crimson’s head, jabbing his thumbs into the Archer’s temples. “You’ve had so many opportunities to let go. To just give up. Death is much easier, Crimson. So much easier.” He gouged of his thumbs into the top of Crimson’s eyelid, putting pressure on his eye, causing the Archer to groan at the sudden pain. “I want you to suffer. I want you to suffer a thousand deaths. But the pleasure of you dying just once will be enough to sate me. So I’m letting you off easy. Go on and let go. Die. No one will judge you. You’re an old man, past your prime. It’ll be a release. You’ll get to see your precious whore of a wife, and your traitor son. Let go, Crimson. Let go.” Crimson could feel the weakness of his body, his own fragility. It would be that easy. Just letting go. There was very little keeping him tethered to Nirn than his own willpower. All he had to do was give in… But he couldn’t. He wasn’t even going to consider the temptation of it for a moment. Because it wasn’t in him to give in. Because even if Daireg, the Adversary, or whoever stripped away everything he was, Crimson could still define himself by one thing. Stubbornness. “No.” Daireg’s face twisted into an ugly grimace. He shoved Crimson’s head back, so that his neck painfully hyperextended, and then delivered a powerful backhand across the Archer’s face. “Fine.” Daireg relented, turning from Crimson, and walking to the front of the cell, looking out the bars. “Then I have one more memory for you. It’s a favorite of mine. And it’s a recent one too.” ---- Crimson frowned at the cards spread out on the table before them. “I think you beat me.” He noted. Shayera blinked. “I did?” Sahir nodded, pointing. “Your paladin takes out my knight. That’s what’s holding up my entire line.” Sahir had been playing his daughter in Iron-Hearts since she’d been able to understand the rules. It was a game about strategy and understanding the value of certain military aspects over others. He’d made a point that he’d never go easy on her. It’d taken fourteen years for her to win one game. A knock came on the door. “Come in.” Sahir called, still examining the game. It was Aleera, curiously enough. Sahir had had a distinct memory of her saying that she was busy today. “Dad…” There was something foreboding about her tone. Crimson frowned, looking up to her. Her eyes were red, had she been crying? Doubtful. Aleera hadn’t cried since she’d been able to help it. “A message came in from Kvatch.” She said, hesitantly. Sahir cracked a grin, sitting back. “Your mother probably whining about wanting to come home. Told her she’d have a rough time slumming it with the yokels.” Aleera didn’t reply. She merely extended a folded piece of parchment to him. He frowned at it, but took it from her all the same. Unfolding the paper and looking inside, he could see it wasn’t a letter but an intelligence report from one of his sources out east. He skimmed it. Destruction in Kvatch… Daedra… Gate… casualty list… Sahir’s eyes hit the bottom of the page, and stopped there. The world stopped too. Time itself. “Dad?” Aleera beckoned, hoping for a response. He blinked, disoriented. Obviously this was a bad dream. I should probably pinch myself, Sahir thought, setting the message down on the table. It was difficult, with his hand shaking so much. “What is it?” Shayera asked, concerned, snatching up the paper to read. “Excuse me.” Sahir croaked, pulling at his collar, and pushing his chair out to stand. He made it two steps from the table before he almost fell, catching himself on the back of the chair. “Father!” Aleera gasped, stepping forwards. Shayera had read the report now and dropped it, rising to help him. “I’m fine!” He snapped, holding a hand to ward them, not daring to look at them. “I’m fine.” He staggered towards the door into a nearby sitting room, pulled it open, and slammed it shut behind himself. He leaned back against the door, the weight of what was happening hitting him, and slid to the ground. He wanted to just sit there. Stare at nothing like the little figurines dotting the mantle over the fireplace nearby. Sit and become nothing. All his life, only one woman had believed in him. Only one woman had forgiven him, had encouraged him. The rest of this damned race could burn away and become ash for all Sahir cared. He hated them all. But… what would Juliette say? She left me, the bastard, Sahir thought, wiping his eyes. In that moment, he hated Juliette too. But then, Sahir loved her more than the hatred. He shoved himself to his feet, swallowed air with a shaky sigh, and pushed the door open. Hakim was there now too. So was Conner, and Julius, and Dalia. Half his children. They all looked so much like her. “Are you alright, Dad?” Conner asked, stepping forwards. He gave Conner a curt nod. “Never better.” He pulled the crown off his head, held it in his hands for a moment considerately, and then looked over to Hakim. “Your’s now.” He said, tossing the gold circlet to the prince, who caught it with surprise. “You kids need me I’ll be…” Sahir decided not to finish, and simply walked past them, out of the room. ---- “I know you asked yourself this already, princeling.” Daireg said, turning back towards Crimson. “But how much can one man take before it’s too much for him? Before he breaks?” Daireg walked down the length of the cell towards Crimson, approaching slowly. “I think you’ve faced too much. I think it won’t take much more to push you over the edge. To push you into… nothing. I think you’re finished, Archer, and that this is the end for you.” Crimson closed his eyes against Daireg’s words, delving into dark world of his own making. “You’re dead.” Crimson whispered. “I am.” Daireg agreed. “But that doesn’t mean everything I said isn’t true. The dead can still speak, princeling. And you’ve racked up quite the body count.” Crimson opened his eyes. Daireg was gone. Shayera was there, still lain along one side of the cell, unconscious. Crimson searched for how he was going to face this, what steps he could take to get out of here. There was nothing. He was hollow. Empty. END OF PART 12 Chapter 13 Category:Blog posts Category:Twelve Stars of Taneth Category:Stories